Remembrances
by AmazinglyMe
Summary: A collection of Ron x Hermione oneshots. Remembrances, extended dance metaphors, and more. Drop by and check them out!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Ron/Hermione thoughts. Slightly inspired by the Beatles song "For No One." Enjoy. I've got some other ones (all written thanks to the Beatles, just because I love those Beatles). I might add them here as well. Anyway, please tell me what you thought. _

**  
Remembrances**

She cries because she can't forget.

Every smile, every gesture, every sweet word, fills her head until it feels like there's no room for anything else. She can't concentrate on anything else, she no longer aces her classes (though Harry comfortingly tells her B+'s are nothing to sneeze at). She can't concentrate because his words balloon through her mind.

She just can't forget.

What she wouldn't give to release all these memories. To just forget it. To be able to let it go, to breath out and let some of the pain waft away. But she just can't.

She has a great memory. For facts, for dates, for names and places, and for every little detail of the last seven months.

For the first time, she cannot stand having so much space in her head. She can see every detail of his face in every light, remember all the little gifts, all the terrible jokes that she laughed at anyway. Every date (or so it seems) every time and place where he was even remotely involved, she remembers in perfect detail.

She can't stand it.

She cries because she can't forget.

* * *

He cries because he can't remember. 

There seems to be some kind of gaping hole inside him where all those memories should be. Those memories that have vanished as though sucked into the very earth, into some kind of void. Perhaps his subconscious did it, thinking to prevent pain, but pain has only been caused.

He wishes desperately that he could remember how her face looked when she was smiling a special smile, just for him, when she was particularly proud of him, when he had just complimented her.

He wishes he could remember all the little moments, the beautiful details.

Harry bracingly tells him that he hasn't really forgotten - he just shouldn't be thinking about it right now and he knows it. But he wishes desperately for just one memory of one fond moment. Instead, memories of their last fight shoot through his mind and envelope his thoughts.

Her hysterical face, his furious voice, Harry and Ginny sitting off to one side, clearly thinking that this is just another ordinary fight. Turned out not to be of course. But he doesn't like to dwell on that.

He wishes he had something else to dwell on. What he wouldn't give to be one of those guys that pine away on afternoon muggles soap operas (his mum's been watching them since she found out they existed), the guys that can't forget one detail of their "glorious relationship" or whatever.

He cries because he can't remember.

_A/N: Ron/Hermione. Being an avid Ron/Hermione shipper, I firmly believe they got back together after this little fic. :P Just had to write it when it occurred to me. _


	2. The Delicate Dance

_A/N: I love RonxHermione. That is all I have to say._

_Disclaimer: Um, do I look like I own Harry Potter? Because I don't. :) Thanks for asking. _

* * *

Delicate Dance

People watched them, day after day, performing their delicate dance towards each other and away again, around each other. Not a dance that would bring them together but one that would only bring them tantalizingly close. So close that it almost hurts, before they whirl away again, occasionally wondering if maybe they should alter the dance -- just a bit.

But they never do.

The music changes as years pass and they grow older, and taller, and different, though never apart. The music changes to fit them, and occasionally new people join in the dance. Viktor Krum, and Lavender Brown, and then Cormac McLaggen.

And yet those people all eventually stumble out of the dance, because they are unimportant, and they hamper the music and the steps. So they are shoved out, or they recognize that they have no part in the dance and leave on their own.

And people watch and wonder, and place the occasional bet, on what will happen in the end. Some claim the dance will just continue on forever, a sad, wistful dance that refuses to allow them to even touch hands.

Others say that they will dance together eventually, that it just takes patience and maybe a little shove.

In the end they didn't need any help. In the end, one of them stumbled. Missed a step in the dance. Screwed up the delicate balance and somehow, in a confused jumble of explanations, blushing faces, and slight hysteria they wound up in each others arms.

Afterwards no one could quite recall which one of them it was that stumbled. Afterwards, no one could quite decide whether they had stumbled on purpose or whether it had been an accident. Afterwards, the details were always a little hazy and only the outcome was clear.

The dance went on, never ending. It swept on, but now, instead of skirting around the edges, the two people danced together, their steps perfectly matched to each others.

* * *

_A/N: Please tell me what you thought of it. :)_  



	3. The Letter

_A/N: Another update! This one's quite a bit longer then the other two, because it just took longer to play out the idea. Some actual dialogue is involved. :P I'm on some shaky grounds here -- I'm not sure of this oneshot. So let me know what you think of it when you finish reading it. _

_

* * *

Dear Hermione,_

_I think perhaps it is time that I…I am not sure of the word. Perhaps the expression is "cut you loose"? _

_I know that you would never need my permission to do anything of course. But I thought that it might make you feel better if I told you that it would be mutual. That is, I mean that I thought it might be easier for both of us if we…broke it off? _

_I do not understand half of the expressions of you English._

_The point is that for a few months now I have listened to you speak of a certain boy. And for one entire year I watched you interact with this boy. And once I got home and thought about it, I realized that I have never had a chance. _

_I am not going to accuse you of "stringing me along" (these expressions will be the death of me) because I do not think you entirely understood things yourself. But to an outside observer, it was fairly obvious I suppose. I did not want it to be, and so first I accused that boy, Harry Potter of having won your affections. _

_That is right, I am not speaking of Harry Potter. _

_I am speaking of Ronald Weasley. _

_I think that he has obviously won your heart (do not accuse me of being cliché please -- I'm trying to be "chivalrous") and I am no longer going to interfere. _

_I hope that you have a very merry Christmas, and that you will write me back soon so that we may remain friends. _

_Sincerely, _

_Viktor Krum_

_

* * *

_Hermione Jane Granger was blushing, just as she did every time she read **The** letter. To her it was always "**The**" letter. But this time she felt something else. She felt reckless. Also stupid. Also like maybe it was time to do something that she might regret for a very long time afterwards.

She didn't often feel like that.

She picked up the parchment and plucked up the Gryffindor courage she was supposed to possess. She gulped. She hesitated.

None of these things were things she was used to doing.

But eventually she strode out of her room, parchment in hand.

As she walked slowly down the stairs she thought about a lot of things. She thought about years spent with Ron at Hogwarts that had come to nothing. She thought about strange feelings in the pit of her stomach. She thought about the sheer awkwardness of all this.

She was not often an awkward person. And all of this could be avoided if she just went back upstairs right now with **The** letter. She could go back to practicality and sensibility.

"Hermione?"

Or at least, she could if she hadn't just reached the bottom of the stupid stairs and walked into the kitchen while thinking about everything. She could have, if her feet hadn't led her into the kitchen where Ron Weasley was sitting. Stupid feet, stupid kitchen, stupid Ron.

Gah.

"Hello." She managed, the hand that held the parchment shaking ever so slightly.

"Erm, hi." Ron said, looking at her concernedly. "You look a bit pale Hermione. Do you feel alright?"

Oh Merlin.

"Yes." She said firmly. "I feel fine. Here," she added, before she could think (something she normally did in alarming amounts) read this."

"Read what?" Ron inquired, bemused.

Wasn't she supposed to be the sensible one, not the rambling, impractical one? People weren't supposed to look so confused when they looked at her. They were supposed to look like they understood things now, and were thankful that everything had been cleared up.

"It's a letter from Viktor." She said, once again not thinking.

"Oh, a letter from _Vicky_." He sneered, his face leaping from concern to scorn in seconds.

"Don't _call_ him that." Hermione said automatically, and thrust the letter at Ron, waiting for him to take it.

"Look I don't want to read your love letter Hermione." Ron said, turning back to eating his toast, disgruntled.

"It isn't a --" Thank Merlin she had Ron here to irritate her back into her old, sensible self. "Just _read_ it Ron." She ordered exasperatedly.

He reluctantly took it, dislike written all over his face.

Suddenly fear flooded through her. _What had she done_?

She must be insane. Temporary insanity. That would be her plea. Why had she given him the letter? He would be reading…What was the first part of the letter? Something about breaking it off. Well that in itself wasn't so bad. But what would happen when he got to the part about _her heart belonging to someone else_? Would he believe the letter? Maybe he wouldn't believe it. She clutched at straws, desperate and terrified, her face turning what must have been a million shades of red. Oh **Merlin**…

She watched him, scrutinizing him for signs of laughter or incredulity. Or for signs of…well, she didn't know what.

His eyes scanned down the letter, his face turning from irritated to something unidentifiable. Her stomach felt like it might drop out of her. Why didn't she leave? She should leave. That was it. If she just left she might still be able to save the situation.

"Came down to have a good laugh did you?" Ron said bitterly, just as she was turning.

What?

She turned back to face him. His ears were red and he was still holding the letter. He looked angry and bitter and embarrassed, and she wondered what was in the letter that could make him so unhappy. She tried to recall if Viktor had said anything uncomplimentary about Ron in **The** letter.

"Your heart belongs to me does it?" He spat out, but to her he looked like he might collapse from the inside out. "I bet you wrote Viktor back and told him it was a really excellent joke did you? Had a good laugh. Did you write him back just now?"

Oh _Merlin_.

"Ron no I --!"

"Well that's your laugh for the day then." He said, holding out the letter. "Go write Vicky alright? He'll want to hear what a great joke you had."

"Ron wait --"

"Bugger off."

"Ron this letter came two _years_ ago."

She sighed, realizing that it was a bit late to run away now.

He was staring.

"It what?" He said, still limply holding out the letter.

"It came two years ago Ron. He wrote me this two years ago and we've been writing each other _as friends_ for ages now."

"Two years ago." Ron repeated, taking an absentminded step forward.

"Can I have my letter Ron?" She asked, hoping to save some face and escape while she could.

He held it out, and as she took it their hands brushed. They both blushed, his ears turning what was almost maroon, her cheeks a faint pink that spread over her forehead.

Perhaps there was something in the air that made people reckless. Maybe the letter was written on special parchment. Or maybe it was just the built up luck of six years of pretending not to care about each other. But Ron's fingers coiled around her hand and didn't let go.

Her stomach performed a few interesting leaps and tumbles. It probably could have won several gymnastic awards. But she was far to preoccupied to consider her stomach's gymnast aspirations.

"Two years ago?" He asked, as though he needed confirmation.

"Two years." She repeated faintly. She was supposed to be completely confident. To know everything. And yet when this boy she'd known for six years grabbed her hand she could hardly move.

"That's a long time." He commented, and she nodded wordlessly.

There was a pause in which neither of them moved.

"Was it true?" He asked finally. His entire face was red, and she imagined hers' was too, because she knew exactly what he was talking about.

**The** letter.

She didn't know what to do. She knew what she _could_ do. She could leave.

But for one of the first times in her life she had never read a book that explained what a person ought to do in this situation. And she did not think one of the many jinxes and curses she knew would be appropriate.

For some odd reason she felt compelled to open her mouth.

"Yes." The word escaped her open mouth before she had a chance to order it to stay where it belonged.

She felt a tingle run not just up and down her spine but into her legs and her stomach and everywhere else, apprehension and humiliation flooding through her in a strange, potent combination.

He was actually looking at her now, and her hand was sweating (or maybe it was just his, she couldn't tell) and her breath seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere on its way to her throat, and her face was so hot she thought it might be able to cook an egg.

**The** letter fell to the floor, but neither of them made a move to pick it up.

That was mostly because they were kissing.

She felt his lips on hers and it felt like it was entirely possible that her heartbeat was in her throat instead of her chest where it belonged. Life in general seemed to be spinning around her, but it didn't matter. For once, rationale had nothing to do with what she was doing. And she didn't mind (at least, not to much).

When they broke apart he was staring at her as though hoping he wasn't going to get into to much trouble for what he'd just done. She wondered what her expression was like.

"It was true?" He asked finally, seemingly trying to fill the silence. It seemed like it had been hours since he'd asked about **The** letter, and she'd told him yes. Yes it was true.

It was true.

It was.

Her ears were ringing and her face was probably redder then ever.

"It was true." She repeated, and threw her arms around him fiercely, feeling for something solid to anchor herself to in all this confusion and whirling and humiliation and elation.. He seemed to automatically extend his own arms around her, and she felt tingles again travel up and down her spine. His face was in her overly bushy hair. She wondered idly if it itched to have your face in all that hair.

So this was love.

* * *

_A/N: Something of an abrupt length change I will admit, but I thought two updates might be warranted, since I hadn't written in a while. This one doesn't come from a Beatles song but from one line in "The Delicate Dance", the one about certain people removing themselves from the dance because they realized they didn't belong there. And I thought, "Viktor was a pretty smart kid." So here this is. Please let me know what you thought of it. _  



	4. Once Upon A Time

_A/N: The lines aren't working? Don't seem to be. Ah well. Please read. _**  
**

**Once upon a time...**

They say you'll know when you meet the person you're destined to fall in love with. They lie. It isn't true. Don't listen.

**Once upon a time...**

They say that fireworks will explode gongs will boom and you'll see stars. They may be right about this. I'll have to check.

**Once upon a time...**

They say that somewhere out there, there's someone that will understand you for the rest of your life, and never, ever be wrong for you, even if you think they are. This is entirely unfair. It makes it hard to yell at her. I manage.

**Once upon a time...**

I didn't know when I met her. How could I? She was a snobby little thing with bushy hair who reminded me of my mother.

**Once upon a time...**

About the fireworks bit.

Does arguing so much that your ears go all funny and your head hurts count?

**Once upon a time...**

Of course, she isn't wrong for me. How could she be? But I like to think she is sometimes. It makes it easier to be self-righteously angry.

**Once upon a time...**

I only fell in love with her after I met her. It has occurred to me that doing things the other way around could be very complicated.

**Once upon a time...**

We argued constantly. All the time. Yelling and fighting tooth, claw, and nail. Yes I mean that figuratively. Don't give me that look.

**Once upon a time...**

I'm not wrong for her either. She insists. And I've managed to be vain enough, on occasion, to believe her.

**And they lived happily-ever-after.**

_A/N: I honestly don't know quite what this was. I set out to write a story in fairy-tale format and, well, this happened. Please let me know what you think. _**  
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